Salem Chapel. Volume 2/2

They came in together into the room, “Mrs. Mildmay and Mr. Fordham” – not Mrs. Hilyard: that was over; and, preoccupied as the minister was, he could not but perceive the sudden change which had come over the Back Grove Street needlewoman. Perhaps her despair had lasted as long as was possible for such an impatient spirit. She came in with the firm, steady step which he had observed long ago, before she had begun to tremble at his eye. Another new stage had commenced in her strange life. She went up to him without any hesitation, clear and decisive as of old.

“I am going away,” she said, holding out her hand to him, “and so I presume are you, Mr. Vincent. I have come to explain everything and see your mother. Let me see your mother. Mr. Fordham has come with me to explain to you. They think in Grange Lane that it is only a man who can speak to a man,” she went on, with the old movement of her thin lips; “and that now I have come to life again, I must not manage my own affairs. I am going back to society and the world, Mr. Vincent. I do not know where you are going, but here is somebody come to answer for me. Do they accept bail in a court of honour? or will you still hold a woman to her parole? for it must be settled now.”

“Why must it be settled now?” said Vincent. He had dropped her hand and turned away from her with a certain repugnance. She had lost her power over him. At that moment the idea of being cruel, tyrannical to somebody – using his power harshly, balancing the pain in his own heart by inflicting pain on another – was not unagreeable to the minister’s excited mind. He could have steeled himself just then to bring down upon her all the horrible penalties of the law. “Why must it be settled?” he repeated; “why must you leave Carlingford? I will not permit it.” He spoke to her, but he looked at Fordham. The stranger was wrapped in a large overcoat which concealed all his dress. What was his dress, or his aspect, or the restrained brightness in his eyes to the minister of Salem? But Vincent watched him narrowly with a jealous inspection. In Fordham’s whole appearance there was the air of a man to whom something was about to happen, which aggravated to the fever-point the dislike and opposition in Vincent’s heart.

“I will be answerable for Mrs. Mildmay,” said Fordham, with an evident response on his side to that opposition and dislike. Then he paused, evidently perceiving the necessity of conciliation. “Mr. Vincent,” he continued, with some earnestness, “we all understand and regret deeply the inconvenience – I mean the suffering – that is to say, the injury and misery which these late occurrences must have caused you. I know how well – that is, how generously, how nobly – you have behaved – ”

Here Mr. Fordham came to a pause in some confusion. To express calm acknowledgments to a man for his conduct in a matter which has been to him one of unmitigated disaster and calamity, requires an amount of composure which few people possess when at the height of personal happiness. The minister drew back, and, with a slight bow, and a restraint which was very natural and not unbecoming in his circumstances, looked on at the confusion of the speaker without any attempt to relieve it. He had offered seats to his visitors, but he himself stood on the hearthrug, dark and silent, giving no assistance in the explanation. He had not invited the explanation – it must be managed now as the others might, without any help from him.

“I have seen Colonel Mildmay,” continued Mr. Fordham, after a confused pause. “If it can be any atonement to you to know how much he regrets all that has happened, so far as your family is concerned – how fully he exonerates Miss Vincent, who was all along deceived, and who would not have remained a moment with him had she not been forcibly detained. Mildmay declares she met with nothing but respect at his hands,” continued the embarrassed advocate, lowering his voice; “he says – ”

“Enough has been said on the subject,” said Vincent, restraining himself with a violent effort.

“Yes – I beg your pardon, it is quite true – enough has been said,” cried Fordham, with an appearance of relief. Here, at least, was one part of his difficult mediation over. “Mildmay will not,” he resumed, after a pause, “tell me or any one else who it was that gave him his wound – that is a secret, he says, between him and his God – and another. Whoever that other may be,” continued Fordham, with a quick look towards Mrs. Mildmay, “he is conscious of having wronged – him – and will take no steps against – him. This culprit, it appears, must be permitted to escape – you think so? – worse evils might be involved if we were to demand – his – punishment. Mr. Vincent, I beg you to take this into consideration. It could be no advantage to you; the innocent shall not suffer – but – the criminal – must be permitted to escape.”

“I do not see the necessity,” said Vincent between his teeth.

“No, no,” said Mrs. Mildmay, suddenly. “Escape! who believes in escape? Mr. Vincent knows better. Hush, you are a happy man just now – you are not qualified to judge; but we know better. Escape! – he means from prisons, and such like,” she continued, turning to Vincent with a half-disdainful wave of her hand towards her companion. “But you know, and so do I, that there is no escape – not in this world. I know nothing about the next,” said the strange woman, curbing once more the flush of excitement which had overpowered her as she spoke – “nothing; neither do you, though you are a priest. But there is enough of retribution here. The criminal – Mr. Vincent – you know – will not escape.”

She spoke these last words panting, with pauses between, for breath. She was afraid of him again; his blankness, his passive opposition, drove her out of her composure. She put her hands together under her shawl with a certain dumb entreaty, and fixed upon him her eager eyes. They were a strange group altogether. Miss Smith, who had still lingered at the door, notwithstanding Mrs. Mildmay’s imperative gesture of dismissal – out of hearing, but not out of sight – suffered some little sound to escape her at this critical moment; and when her patroness turned round upon her with those dreadful eyes, fled with precipitation, taking refuge in Mrs. Vincent’s room. The table, still covered with its white cloth, stood between that dismayed spectator before she disappeared finally, and the little company who were engaged in this silent conflict. Beside it sat Mrs. Mildmay, with a renewed panic of fear rising in her face. Fordham, considerably disturbed, and not knowing what to say, stood near her buttoning and unbuttoning his overcoat with impatient fingers, anxious to help her, but still more anxious to be gone. The minister stood facing them all, with compressed lips, and eyes which looked at nobody. He was wrapt in a silent dumb resistance to all entreaties and arguments, watching Fordham’s gestures, Fordham’s looks, with a jealous but secret suspicion. His heart was cruel in its bitterness. He for whom Providence had no joys in store, to whom the light was fading which made life sweet, was for this moment superior to the happy man who stood embarrassed and impatient before him; and generous as his real nature was, it was not in him, in this moment of darkness, to let the opportunity go.

“The innocent have suffered already,” said Vincent, “all but madness, all but death. Why should the criminal escape? – go back into society, the society of good people, perhaps strike some one else more effectually? Why should I betray justice, and let the criminal escape? My sister’s honour and safety are mine, and shall be guarded, whoever suffers. I will not permit her to go.”

“But I offer to be answerable for her appearance,” said Fordham, hastily. “I undertake to produce her if need be. You know me. I am a – a relation of the family. I am a man sufficiently known to satisfy any magistrate. You have no legal right to detain her. What would you have more? Is not my guarantee enough for you?”

“No,” said Vincent, slowly. The two men stood defiant opposite to each other, contending for this woman, whom neither of them looked at, for whom neither of them cared. She, in the mean time, sat still in an agony of suspense and concealed anguish, with her eyes fixed on Vincent’s face. She knew very well it was not of her that either of the two was thinking; yet it was her fate, perhaps her very life, which hung trembling in the balance. A smothered sighing sob came from her breast. She was silenced for the first time in her life. She had escaped her crime; but all its material consequences, shame and punishment, still hung over her head. After God himself had freed her from the guilt of blood – after the injured man himself had forgiven her – when all was clear for her escape into another life – was this an indignant angel, with flaming sword and averted face, that barred the way of the fugitive? Beyond him, virtue and goodness, and all the fruits of repentance, shone before the eyes which had up to this time seen but little attraction in them – all so sweet, so easy, so certain, if but she were free. Her worn heart sighed to get forth into that way of peace. She could have fallen on her knees before the stern judge who kept her back, and held over her head the cloud of her own ill-doings, but dared not, in her paroxysm of fear and half-despair. A groaning, sighing sob, interrupted and broken, came from her exhausted breast. Just as she had recovered herself – as she had escaped – as remorse and misery had driven her to yearn after a better life, to be cast down again into this abyss of guilt and punishment! She trembled violently as she clasped her poor hands under her shawl. Composure and self-restraint were impossible in this terrible suspense.

Her cry went to Fordham’s heart; and, besides, he was in desperate haste, and could afford to sink his pride, and make an appeal for once. He made a step forward, and put out his hand with an entreating gesture. “Do you hear her?” he cried, suddenly. “You have had much to bear yourself; have pity on her. Let her off – leave her to God. She has been ill, and will die if you have no mercy. You who are a minister – ”

In his energy his overcoat fell back for a moment; underneath he was in full dress, which showed strangely in that grey spring morning. Vincent turned round upon him with a smile. The young man’s face was utterly pale, white to the lips. The bells were jangling joy in his ears. He was not master of himself. “We detain you, Mr. Fordham; you have other affairs in hand,” he said. “I am a minister only – a Dissenting minister – unworthy to have such an intercessor pleading with me; but you, at least,” cried poor Vincent, with an attempt at sarcasm, “do not want my pity; there is nothing between us that requires explanation. I will arrange with Mrs. Mildmay alone.” He turned away and went to the window when he had spoken. There he stood, with his back to them, listening to the bells of St. Roque’s, as they came and went in irregular breaks upon the wind. His heart was bursting with wild throbs of bitterness and despair; it was all he could do to keep the tumult down, and contain himself in that flush of passion. He turned away from them, and stood gazing out at that tedious window into the blank world. What did it matter? Let her escape if she would – let things go as they might; nothing was of any further importance – certainly on earth – perhaps even in heaven.

“I will go away – I can do you no good – I should only lose my temper; and time presses,” said Mr. Fordham, with a flush of resentment on his face, as he turned to the anxious woman behind him. What could he do? He could not quarrel with this angry man in his own house on such a day. He could not keep happier matters waiting. He would not risk the losing of his temper and his time at this moment of all others. He went away with a sensation of defeat, which for half an hour materially mitigated his happiness. But he was happy, and the happy are indulgent judges both of their own conduct and of others. As for the minister, he was roused again when he saw his rival jump into the cab at the door, and drive off alone down the street, which was lively with the early stir of day. The sun had just broken through the morning clouds, and it was into a ruddy perspective of light that the stranger disappeared as he went off towards Grange Lane. Strange contrast of fate! While Fordham hastened down into the sunshine to all the joy that awaited him there, Tozer, a homely, matter-of-fact figure in the ruddy light, was crossing the street towards the minister’s door. Vincent went away from the window again, with pangs of an impatience and intolerance of his own lot which no strength of mind could subdue. All the gleams of impossible joy which had lighted his path in Carlingford had now gone out, and left him in darkness; and here came back, in undisturbed possession, all the meaner circumstances of his individual destiny. Salem alone remained to him out of the wreck of his dreams; except when he turned back and discovered her – the one tragic thread in the petty history – this woman whose future life for good or for evil he held in his avenging hands.

Mrs. Mildmay was still seated by the table. She had regained command of herself. She looked up to him with gleaming eyes when he approached her. “Mr. Vincent, I keep my parole – I am waiting your pleasure,” she said, never removing her eyes from his face. It was at this moment that Mrs. Vincent, who had from the window of Susan’s chamber seen the cab arrive and go away with some curiosity, came into the room. The widow wanted to know who her son’s visitors were, and what had brought them. She came in with a little eagerness, but was brought to a sudden standstill by the appearance of Mrs. Mildmay. Why was this woman here? what had she to do with the minister? Mrs. Vincent put on her little air of simple dignity. She said, “I beg your pardon; I did not know my son was engaged,” with a curtsy of disapproving politeness to the unwelcome visitor. With a troubled look at Arthur, who looked excited and gloomy enough to justify any uncomfortable imaginations about him, his mother turned away somewhat reluctantly. She did not feel that it was quite right to leave him exposed to the wiles of this “designing woman;” but the widow’s own dignity was partly at stake. All along she had disapproved of this strange friendship, and she could not countenance it now.

“Your mother is going away,” said Mrs. Mildmay, with a restrained outcry of despair: “is no one to be permitted to mediate between us? You are a man and cruel; you are in trouble, and you think you will avenge yourself. No, no – I don’t mean what I say. Your son is a – a true knight, Mrs. Vincent; I told you so before. He will never be hard upon a woman: if I had not known that, why should I have trusted him? I came back, as he knows, of my own will. Don’t go away; I am willing you should know – the whole,” said the excited woman, with a sudden pause, turning upon Vincent, her face blanching into deadly whiteness – “the whole – I consent; let her be the judge. Women are more cruel than men; but I saved her daughter – I am willing that she should hear it all.”

She sat down again on the seat from which she had risen. A certain comfort and relief stole over her face. She was appealing to the general heart of humanity against this one man who knew her secret. It might be hard to hear the story of her own sin – but it was harder to be under the stifling sway of one who knew it, and who had it in his power to denounce her. She ceased to tremble as she looked at the widow’s troubled face. It was a new tribunal before which she stood; perhaps here her provocations might be acknowledged – her soul acquitted of the burden from which it could never escape. As the slow moments passed on, and the minister did not speak, she grew impatient of the silence. “Tell her,” she said, faintly – it was a new hope which thus awoke in her heart.

But while Mrs. Mildmay sat waiting, and while the widow drew near, not without some judicial state in the poise of her little figure, to hear the explanation which she felt she was entitled to, Tozer’s honest troubled face looked in at the door. It put a climax upon the confusion of the morning. The good butterman looked on in some surprise at this strange assemblage, recognising dimly the haze of an excitement of which he knew nothing. He was acquainted, to some extent, with the needlewoman of Back Grove Street. He had gone to call on her once at the solicitation of the anxious Brown, who had charge of her district but did not feel himself competent to deal with the spiritual necessities of such a penitent; and Tozer remembered well that her state of mind had not been satisfactory – “not what was to be looked for in a person as had the means of grace close at hand, and attended regular at Salem.” He thought she must have come at this unlucky moment to get assistance of some kind from the minister – “as if he had not troubles enough of his own,” Tozer said to himself; but the deacon was not disposed to let his pastor be victimised in any such fashion. This, at least, was a matter in which he felt fully entitled to interfere.

“Good mornin’, ma’am,” said the worthy butterman; “good mornin’, Mr. Vincent – it’s cold, but it’s seasonable for the time of year. What I wanted was a word or two with the pastor, ma’am, if he’s disengaged. It ain’t what I approve,” continued Tozer, fixing his eyes with some sternness upon the visitor, “to take up a minister’s time in the morning when he has the work of a flock on his hands. My business, being such as can’t wait, is different; but them as are in want of assistance, one way or another, which is a thing as belongs to the deacons, have no excuse, not as I can see, for disturbing the pastor. It ain’t a thing as I would put up with,” continued Tozer, with increasing severity; the charities of the flock ain’t in Mr. Vincent’s hands; it’s a swindling of his time to come in upon him of a morning if there ain’t a good reason; and, as far as I am concerned, it would be enough to shut my heart up again’ giving help – that’s how it would work on me.”

Mrs. Mildmay was entirely inattentive to the first few words of this address, but the pointed application given by the speaker’s eyes called her attention presently. She gazed at him, as he proceeded, with a gradual lightening of her worn and anxious face. While Mrs. Vincent did all she could, with anxious looks and little deprecatory gestures, to stop the butterman, the countenance of her visitor cleared by one of those strange sudden changes which the minister had noted so often. Her lips relaxed, her eyes gleamed with a sudden flash of amusement. Then she glanced around, seeing with quick observation not only the absurdity of Tozer’s mistake, but the infallible effect it had in changing the aspect of affairs. The minister had turned away, not without a grim, impatient smile at the corner of his mouth. The minister’s mother, shocked in all her gentle politeness, was eagerly watching her opportunity to break in and set the perplexed deacon right. The culprit, who had been on her trial a moment before, drew a long breath of utter relief. Now she had escaped – the crisis was over. Her quick spirit rose with a sense of triumph – a sensation of amusement. She entered eagerly into it, leaning forward with eyes that shone and gleamed upon her accuser, and a mock solemnity of attention which only her desperate strain of mind and faculties could have enabled her to assume so quickly. When the butterman came to a pause, Mrs. Vincent rushed in breathlessly to the rescue.

“Mr. Tozer – Mr. Tozer! this lady is – a – a friend of ours,” cried the minister’s mother, with looks that were much more eloquent of her distress and horror than any words. She had no time to say more, when the aggrieved individual herself broke in —

“Mr. Tozer knows I have been one of the flock since ever Mr. Vincent came,” said the strange woman. “I have gone to all the meetings, and listened faithfully to the pastor every time he has preached; and would you judge me unworthy of relief because I once came to see him in a morning? That is hard laws; but the minister will speak for me. The minister knows me,” she went on, turning to Vincent, “and he and his mother have been very charitable to a poor woman, Mr. Tozer. You will not exclude me from the Salem charities for this one offence? Remember that I am a member of the flock.”

“Not a church-member as I know,” said the sturdy deacon – “not meaning no offence, if I’ve made a mistake – one sitting, as far as I remember; but a – lady – as is a friend of Mrs. Vincent’s – ”

Here Tozer paused, abashed but suspicious, not disposed to make any further apology. That moment was enough to drive this lighter interlude from the vigilant soul which, in all its moods, watched what was going on with a quick apprehension of the opportunities of the moment. All her perceptions, quickened as they were by anxiety and fear, were bent on discovering an outlet for her escape, and she saw her chance now. She got up wearily, leaning on the table, as indeed she needed to lean, and looked into Mrs. Vincent’s face: “May I see my child?” she said, in a voice that went to the heart of the widow. The minister’s mother could not resist this appeal. She saw the trembling in her limbs, the anxiety in her eye. “Arthur, I will see to Mrs. Mildmay. Mr. Tozer has something to say to you, and we must not occupy your time,” said the tender little woman, in whose gentle presence there was protection and shelter even for the passionate spirit beside her. Thus the two went away together. If there had ever been any revengeful intention in Vincent’s mind, it had disappeared by this time. He too breathed deep with relief. The criminal had escaped, at least out of his hands. He was no longer compelled to take upon himself the office of an avenger.

CHAPTER XX

“I HOPE, sir, as I haven’t said anything to give offence? – it was far from my meaning,” said Tozer; “not as the – person – is a church-member, being only a seat-holder for one sittin’, as is down in the books. I wouldn’t have come over, not so early, Mr. Vincent, if it wasn’t as I was wishful to try if you’d listen to reason about the meetin’ as is appointed to be to-night. It ain’t no interest of mine, not so far as money goes, nor nothing of that kind. It’s you as I’m a-thinking of. I don’t mind standing the expense out of my own pocket, if so be as you’d give in to make it a tea-meetin’. I don’t know as you’d need to do nothing but take the chair and make yourself agreeable. Me and Brown and the women would manage the rest. It would be a pleasant surprise, that’s what it would be,” said the good butterman; “and Phœbe and some more would go down directly to make ready: and I don’t doubt as there’s cakes and buns enough in Carlingford, Mr. Vincent, sir, if you’d but bend your mind to it and consent.”

“I am going out,” said Vincent; “I have – something to do; don’t detain me, Tozer. I must have this morning to myself.”

“I’ll walk with you, sir, if I ain’t in the way,” said the deacon, accompanying the young man’s restless steps down-stairs. “They tell me Miss is a deal better, and all things is going on well. I wouldn’t be meddlesome, Mr. Vincent, not of my own will; but when matters is settling, sir, if you’d but hear reason! There can’t nothing but harm come of more explanations. I never had no confidence in explanations, for my part; but pleasant looks and the urns a-smoking, and a bit of green on the wall, as Phœbe and the rest could put up in no time! and just a speech as was agreeable to wind up with – a bit of an anecdote, or poetry about friends as is better friends after they’ve spoke their minds and had it out – that’s the thing as would settle Salem, Mr. Vincent. I don’t speak, not to bother you, sir, but for your good. There ain’t no difficulty in it; it’s easier a deal than being serious and opening up all things over again; and as for them as would like to dictate – ”

“I am not thinking of Salem,” said the minister; “I have many other things to distract me; for heaven’s sake, if you have any pity, leave me alone to-day.”

“But you’ll give in to make it a tea-meetin’?” said the anxious butterman, pausing at his own door.

Tozer did not make out the minister’s reply. It is difficult to distinguish between a nod and a shake of the head, under some circumstances – and Vincent did not pause to give an articulate answer, but left his champion to his own devices. It seemed to Vincent to be a long time since Fordham left his house – and he was possessed with a fever of impatience to see for himself what was being transacted down yonder in the sunshine, where the spire of St. Roque’s appeared in the distance through the ruddy morning haze. The bells had ceased, and all was quiet enough in Grange Lane. Quite quiet – a few ordinary passengers in the tranquil road, nursemaids and children – and the calm green doors closing in the concealed houses, as if no passion or agitation could penetrate them. The door of Lady Western’s garden was ajar. The minister crossed over and looked in with a wistful, despairing hope of seeing something that would contradict his conclusion. The house was basking in the spring sunshine – the door open, some of the windows open, eager servants hovering about, an air of expectation over all. With eyes full of memories, the minister looked in at the half-open door, which one time and another had been to him the gate of paradise. Within, where the red geraniums and verbenas had once brightened all the borders, were pale crocuses and flowers of early spring – the limes were beginning to bud, the daisies to grow among the grass. The winter was over in that sheltered and sunny place; Nature herself stood sweet within the protecting walls, and gathered all the tenderest sweets of spring to greet the bride in the new beginning of her life. It was but a glance, but the spectator, in the bitterness of his heart, did not lose a single tint or line; and just then the joy-bells burst out once more from St. Roque’s. Poor Vincent drew back from the door as the sudden sound stung him to the heart. Nothing had any pity for him – all the world, and every voice and breath therein, sided with the others in their joy. He went on blindly, without thinking where he was going, with a kind of dull, stubborn determination in his heart, not to turn back in his wretchedness even from the sight of the happy procession which he knew must be advancing to meet him. A pang more or less, what did it matter? And for the last time he would look on Her who was nothing in the world to him now – who never could have been anything – yet who had somehow shed such streams of light upon the poor minister’s humble path, as no reality in all his life had ever shed before. He paused on the edge of the road as he saw the carriage coming. It was one of those moments when a man’s entire life becomes apparent to him in long perspective of past and future, he himself and all the world standing still between. The bells rang on his heart, with echoes from the wheels and the horses’ feet coming up in superb pride and triumph. Heaven and earth were glad for her in her joy. He, in his great trouble, stood dark in the sunshine and looked on.